Purgatory. Ken Bruen

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      Jesus.

      The forerunner of all those offers,

      Buy one, get one free.

      Ridge asked,

      “Am I interrupting something?”

      “Tales of the hangman.”

      A pause.

      The question hovered,

      “Are you drinking?”

      But it passed and she asked,

      “Will you help me out?”

      Uh-oh

      As they say in literary novels,

      No good would have come of it.

      Ridge had married Anthony Hemple, an upper-class Anglo-Irish bollix. He wanted a mother for his daughter, she wanted juice for promotion to sergeant. They were now separated. I said,

      “Well, sergeant, spit it out.”

      “I’ve been invited to a party. I want to go, but I need a partner.”

      I let her stew, then,

      “How come you didn’t ask Stewart?”

      “He’s already going with a young lady.”

      “What’s the occasion?”

      “The Reardon party.”

      The party.

      Reardon had altered the Hunter house to accommodate his reputation. Up to a helipad on the extended roof. The setting remained spectacular, not one other property nearby and the golf links spreading out to reveal the whole of Galway Bay. It made even the bloody rain look attractive. I was dressed in my one suit, the funeral job. Black and from a charity shop. I was suffering a panic attack, no Jay, no X, no cigs, thinking,

      “Am I out of me fooking mind?”

      I was loath to attend public events as just recently a news­paper, in lieu of anything new or out of sheer bollocks laziness, rehashed the story of, as the headline put it,

      The Tragedy of Serena May.

      Replayed all those terrible events. My closest friends, Jeff and Cathy, had a daughter with Down syndrome. The light of their lives and mine. I adored that child, spent many hours as the bedraggled excuse for a babysitter. Until, Jesus, a terrible accident and the child was killed. Years later I was exonerated of blame but the mud stuck, the thinking was

      “Taylor was there.”

      And true, as the Americans say, it happened on my watch. The article didn’t scream

      “Taylor did it.”

      But published a furtive photo of me and you thought

      “The fucker did something.”

      All it took.

      Suggestion.

      Ridge asked,

      “You all right, Jack?”

      Given that I’d never in me whole bedraggled, befuddled exis­tence been all right, I had to bite down on the sarcasm, always bubbling under, then,

      “Yeah, not using anything, it’s a trip. Like Richard Fariña. I’ve been down so long, maybe it will seem like up.”

      Being Ridge, she asked the wrong question.

      “And Richard Fariña, how did he fare?”

      I could have been tactful, lied, but I don’t do nice, not ever, said,

      “O.D.”

      Shut that baby right down.

      * * *

      The Hunter place was ablaze with light, like a beacon of false hope to the city. As we got out of the car, Ridge handing over the keys to a parking guy, she said,

      “Tis rumored the Saw Doctors might show, play their number one hit, with Petula Clark’s Downtown.”

      Now that would seem like up.

      The best and the brightest

      Were not at the party.

      They’d emigrated.

      What we had was the shoddy and the smiles. The Galway celebrities, who’d yet to make it to The Late Late Show but claimed they’d gotten the call. Waiters in livery, I kid you fooking not, were dispensing champagne. Ridge took a glass and the waiter, familiar in a bad way, said to me,

      “It’s free, Taylor.”

      I said,

      “It’s a lot of things, but free ain’t one of them.”

      I heard him mutter,

      “Kent.”

      And no, he didn’t think I was from the county.

      Stewart approached, a dark girl in tow, looking like Beyoncé in her younger days. He had, as the Brits say, an impeccable evening suit and I hope I’m wrong, but what appeared to be a maroon cummerbund.

      Jesus wept.

      He introduced her as

      “Tiffany.”

      Of course, no chance we’d be running into too many named Mary. Out of absolute zero interest, I asked,

      “And do you work . . . um . . . ?”

      Couldn’t quite bring myself to utter the name. She gave a champagne giggle, said,

      “How droll.”

      I’ve been called every variety of bollix but this was a first. She countered,

      “And you, John, do you?”

      Great.

      “It’s Jack. I insult people.”

      She was game, went with it.

      “And does it keep you?”

      “Off the streets, at least.”

      Stewart whisked her away, fast. Ridge glared at me but a man was coming up on her right, dressed in ratty jeans, battered Converse, and a sweatshirt with the logo

      I’m a gas.

      Yeah.

      Reardon.

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